


practical applications of newton's second law of thermodynamics

by verbanski



Series: sarah meet sara [5]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Chuck (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbanski/pseuds/verbanski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which the universe favors disorder over order so much that it screws with sarah a bit too much for her liking</p><p>but really what else is new</p>
            </blockquote>





	practical applications of newton's second law of thermodynamics

**Author's Note:**

> i SWORE i posted this back when i finished it way back sometime last year but alas i did not. thank god though this thing was long over due and i already did the hard part...i'm sure at least one of you out there cares about that

Perhaps ‘out of sight, out of mind’ isn’t enough when it comes to Chuck Bartowski, computer for brains, expert meddler of all things who rivals mothers who are afraid their daughters will die as old cat ladies.

At least, it can’t _possibly_ be enough when getting _fired_ from the CIA doesn’t even save their seven month op from being _singlehandedly_ blown sky high by him.

So, trying to ignore him clearly doesn't work. Neither does simply not contacting him on any plane of communication available. Mutually (ha) parting amicably on mostly good terms also seems out the window at this point.

Staying in Burbank is definitely crossed off the list. However, she had too much invested in this recent shit show that she doesn’t want to request another op to whisk her away just yet.

But maybe Tijuana.

Tequila sounds like a brilliant idea.

 

(She doesn't actually make it to Tijuana because The Universe might hate her.)

 

A most brilliant idea tequila is!

– or so Sarah has convinced herself because this tequila is overpriced like hell and she’s about four shots deep at this point.

Make that five because another shot miraculously appears in front of her like a shining beacon of bad decisions and she downs it too because why the fuck not? 

The Universe conspired to screw her seven ways to Sunday, so honestly, the least it could do is give her a free nine dollar shot. It’s only fair, really. Not that life is fair or anything, but Sarah thinks it should be sometimes. Like when seven months of your life have gone down the drain in oh, seven minutes give or take a few.

(Especially then, actually.)

Sarah’s too busy mulling over the whole unfairness of life thing while staring at the empty shot glass that she doesn't realize someone’s talking to her. She blurts out an undignified sound of confusion when she finally looks up and…

She either really is that drunk or that’s actually Sara leaning against the near corner of the bar cleaning a glass like she works here or something.

“I asked if you were having a rough day,” Sara illusion (the real her is supposed to be in Starling City and hasn't spoken to her in over four months but who’s actually counting) says.

“I think I’m drunk.” 

_Smooth moves, James Bond_ , because if the real people here didn't think she was crazy already for drinking this much expensive cheap shit alone, they’re definitely going to think she is when she’s talking to herself.

“The last time I drank tequila with you, I’m pretty sure you drank half the whole handle and could still walk straight. Then again, maybe Wednesday night movies and making pancakes from scratch in the mornings have steamrolled your tolerance.”

“Well, it’s nice to finally see you again, too, jackass.” Sarah has the decency to look offended here because 1. She uses pancake mix and 2. Their movie nights are on Sunday not Wednesday, thank you very much.

The insult and the sarcasm goes over Sara’s head (she’s not an illusion, that would have been too good to be true) and she just laughs. Like it’s funny since they’re friends and they can joke about stupid things like that.

But they’re not friends, they’re not really much of anything at all these days, and when Sara asks Sarah where her ‘beloved boyfriend’ is, Sarah kind of loses it.

 

(The Universe definitely hates her.)

 

To be fair, Sarah did not think for a second that the shot glass would have hit her when she decided to throw it. She’s also slightly drunk so her aim shouldn't be that good, either.

Sara is supposed to be some crime fighting vigilante, ex-shadow assassin who’s alive to write an autobiography about it if that was her thing. A shot glass chucked at her head rates less than a one on a scale of 1-10 of Things That Are Hard to Dodge – and Sarah would know.

Yet here she is sobered up by the whole ordeal because the shot glass does hit Sara in the head and somehow it breaks against her thick skull and leaves a nice gash from her eyebrow to across her temple. It’s bad enough to warrant some stitches, although not so bad that they needed to waste a trip to the emergency room; Sarah has a first aid kit in her duffel out of habit, the hotel room is as good a place to get fixed up as any.

“How is it that your Green Thumb boyfriend puts you in charge of keeping his city safe when your reflexes are this bad,” she asks in lieu of an apology. She’s not in the mood to apologize to anyone tonight, especially not if the person she owes an apology to is crashing _her_ city.

(Okay, so it’s not technically her city because she’s in San Diego right now.

It still counts – it’s in her state.)

(When the hell did she acquire a city, let alone a state, anyways?)

“He _wears_ green, _he_ is the Arrow and I don’t think he can garden to save his life. And it’s not like I really anticipate people throwing shot glasses at me for giving them a free shots.”

“Are you kidding me? Those were an arm and a leg, free my ass.”

“Perks of working here include giving people I like drinks. Not that I like you much anymore.”

“But my bartender earlier was Dale,” Sarah says, because they’re not going to talk about this. All she really wants is to get to Tijuana – or anywhere else. Quite literally anywhere but here would be perfect.

“And then his shift ended and I started working somewhere around your third drink…you were busy staring at the – _ow_ – counter.”

Sarah tugs on the suture a little too sharply at that admission. She nearly apologizes for it out of reflex, until she realizes it means that Sara left her alone until for some unfathomable reason she _had_ to talk to her and mess up their mutual silence punctuated by liquor.

“And staring aimlessly at nothing for thirty minutes became an invitation for conversation while I was hiding away in fake domesticity?”

“No,” she sighs, “but looking like you were about to cry or something equally as awful kinda did.”

 

(Well, _shit_.)

 

Sarah knows, alright, she knows – the only thing Sara’s currently at fault for right now is not calling and trying to do a nice thing for an ungrateful asshat.

She doesn’t deserve being snapped at because she has her own life, far away from Sarah that happens to now be close to Sarah and if they go back far enough, all this started with Sarah anyways. So, if she really wants to blame someone for her current situation, it’d be herself.

All things considered, it’s not really good enough incentive to play the blame game.

 

“Thank you. Also, sorry, but mostly thank you.”

“Yeah.”

“I called things off with Chuck.”

“Thought you said there wasn’t anything to call off with him.”

“There wasn’t, not really. I thought maybe but I prefer buying pancakes at that diner we found in Vale and I can’t sit through a romantic comedy without making fun of everyone. He takes them seriously, he’s like in love with anything that Katherine Heigl girl is in; it’s nauseating.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“So where is he?”

“Probably still with Casey, spooning a tub of cheese puffs.”

“Oh, yeah? I can totally see why you almost went for him, what a catch.”

“Shut the fuck up, please.”

 

It happens like this:

Neither of them are dating anyone anymore, real, fake, or anything else in between.

 _Irreconcilable differences_ , Sara says when they’re sitting on the balcony, like this is something that happens to any other couple you could pick out in a crowd. Sarah could call her out on it, maybe say that differences in simple truths are the least of their problems when it comes to dating. She chooses not to; it’s not worth ruining their salvaged mess of a night.

“Maybe we did something wrong,” she thinks out loud before taking a swig of cold beer. Because it’s highly possible – her job is a lot of making shit up as she goes and…she was pretty much making everything up as she went.

Sara shrugs with one shoulder, her free hand messing with the tab on the can, “or maybe they just weren’t right.”

Or that. It’s not like the idea is totally unreasonable.

Chuck is _Chuck_ , which is the only way she can aptly describe him; Casey would say nerd, Morgan would say hero, Sara would say man-child that doesn’t deserve second and third chances or the light of day.

He makes her feel like there’s a part of Sarah that’s missing, something crucial that she needs to understand why it’s important to tell someone that you care instead of only being there when they need you the most. Something that would make calling just to say ‘I love you’ a thing she does and the same statement something she actually says on a regular basis, if at all.

(and honestly, it makes her skin crawl)

“Shoot me on sight if I ever call to say I love you and I’m not singing along to the song.”

 

(Tijuana is easily forgotten, The Universe probably planned that from the start.)

 

She only means to stay the day after, to sober up and wash her hands of this god awful night and be on her merry way down south but Sara says something about having a day off and stay and Sarah seems to have little willpower left to fight with her on it.

They spend the day together, ignoring everything that’s wrong to focus on everything that’s right; the sun is bright, the sand is warm, and the waves have enough swell for them to surf well into the afternoon. By the time Sarah even remembers she’s supposed to be leaving it’s already four days, thirty-nine missed calls, fifty-seven unopened texts later.

Sara finally gets tired of the constant vibrating against the coffee table while they’re in the middle of a House Hunters International marathon on HGTV. She unceremoniously grabs the phone after the Mission: Impossible theme song plays for third time before the couple on TV has made it to house two and hops to her feet to go somewhere else in the apartment before Sarah has a chance to stop her. Sarah almost goes after her to get it back, although a faint thud makes her reconsider exerting effort into a lost cause.

When Sara reemerges, it’s sans cellphone and with a very, very unamused face to counter the growing smirk on Sarah’s.

“How did you not strangle that nutbag for two years?”

“Unlike you, I am actually capable of exercising self control when it comes to annoying things.”

“Okay, fine, but seriously? Dude texted you a manifesto in like ten texts and I’m pretty sure he quoted Shakespeare in the last message.”

She makes her way back to the couch, opting to give up her previously occupied side in favor of sprawling out on most of it and using Sarah’s lap as a makeshift pillow. For a second, she thinks about shoving Sara off but she has been nice enough to let her say in the apartment for the time being.

“If he did, I’m surprised you’d be able to recognize something that’s not strictly from a Saturday morning cartoon.”

Sara scowls then, moving to grab the throw pillow on the other side of the couch that Sarah easily intercepts it before it can collide with her head. She hears something along the lines of big jerk muttered before Sara’s arms are crossed over her chest and her attention is back on the TV.

Sarah wants to ask her about the phone, about what exactly it was that required her to go to another room and where her phone went. She has a feeling that’ll get her nowhere, so she opts to go back to watching the show, too. It’s not until the couple is left to deliberate their options when Sara speaks up again.

“You know, you should probably stop using my birthday for all your passcodes; they say you really shouldn’t make that stuff personal.”

This time, Sarah does shove Sara off her lap.

 

(If she could beat up The Universe, she would, because that would probably be an easier feat.)

 

They talk about it at six in the morning on a Sunday that kept Sara late at the hotel and Sarah spread eagle in the middle of the bed to take up as much space as she can.

It’s inevitable really, Sarah knew that much after they passed the one week mark she actively refused to acknowledge at the time. Still, that doesn’t mean she actually wants to have it, except there’s really no way to get out of it when she gets blindsided so badly.

“I know you’re awake,” is how it starts, with Sara kneeling on her side of the bed because there’s not actually room for her to lay down unless she decided to lay on top of Sarah. That would be far too much on top of this whole mess, she’s thankful that Sara knew that much before she decided to do this.

“You’ve been here for…too long. What’s up, pup?”

The growl from the back of her throat at the abhorrent nickname is subdued by the fingers that start to comb through Sarah’s hair. With her cover blown, she blinks away the last of the sleepy haze left to finally face the dreaded music.

“Boys suck.”

Sara chuckles at that, “yeah, I knew that one already. Anything else you wanna enlighten me about?”

“I…it’s just…I don’t even know,” she trails off lamely. There’s a million thoughts bouncing through her head that she can’t settle on one actual reason why everything in her life has suddenly gone up in smoke. It’s like there’s Chuck and all the crap the comes with Chuck and then there’s all the crap she pulled because she was with him and so maybe it truly is Chuck but then she has to blame herself for her current state, too.

And apparently, she mumbled all that out loud because suddenly there’s fingers fiddling with her ear and Sara whispering that it’s not her fault with that especially stupid smile stuck on her face.

“I could’ve said no,” she counters, feeling more stubborn than she truly wants to be.

“Yeah, so could I but now, you’re just fishing. You couldn’t have known he’d be a dick the same way I couldn’t have known the Gambit would’ve gone down – you know that.”

“I thought I’d be alright.”

She should be more embarrassed, really, she’s starting to sound like a petulant child the more Sara humors her. Honestly, she doesn’t know when the two of them switched places and Sarah became the one that needs to be handheld.

“Well,” Sara sighs, “I’ve always thought you were pretty great.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, ya big dope, I did.”

With that, she pushes Sarah over to make more space on the bed for her to fit in while grumbling something about being exhausted in the process. She’s nearly fallen back asleep again when Sara shifts somewhere next to her, says something she only gets to half hear that she makes a noise back at.

“I said, I still do.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

 

(So, maybe The Universe isn’t too bad after all.)


End file.
